Mistress of the Storm (8 page)

‘When I was making tea,’ she interrupted, ‘you asked Alice about someone called Rafe Gallant: my grandfather, you said. But Alice changed the subject.’

Henry looked at her. ‘Well, yes …’ he said slowly. ‘He would have been your grandmother’s husband. Your father’s father; and leader of the Gentry.’

Verity gawped silently for a couple of seconds, processing what Henry had just said.

‘Crikey.’ He grinned, obviously surprised. ‘Your family
really
don’t like to talk about it much, do they?’

Verity knew about the Gentry of course. Who didn’t? They had been as much a part of Wellow as the cliffs, the harbour or the sea. They had made Wellow. Almost literally. But they’d always been referred to in the past tense. As something that once was, but had finished. Not as a part of her family so close it was within living memory.

‘My grandfather was the leader of the Gentry …’ said Verity slowly. She was astonished. How could her new friend know more about her family than she did?

‘I’d always heard his wife was dead though,’ Henry continued conversationally, as if such revelations were an everyday occurrence.

Verity thought of her parents’ lifelong dislike of questions. In her mind she recalled a flurry of fleeting whispers; of comments that hadn’t made any sense and conversations that had been brought to a halt when she entered the room. ‘I mean … it’s not a surprise that I
have
a grandfather. I knew that … somehow. I just don’t know
anything about him. My parents have never spoken about him
at all.
’

Henry shook his head in sympathy at the unfathomable ways of parents.

‘
Why
haven’t they ever said anything? Why didn’t I ask more?’

‘I expect your dad just wants to pretend it never happened,’ commented Henry consolingly. ‘When my parents won’t discuss something, it’s as if the words don’t exist. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve tried to bring up the subject of motorbikes, and it’s as if they can’t hear a word I’m saying.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘It’s as if I’m not even talking …

‘A lot of people feel pretty ashamed about the Gentry now,’ he went on sympathetically, remembering what he was supposed to be talking about.

Verity didn’t understand. ‘But why?’

‘Because the Gentry didn’t stop at smuggling, did they? There was a craft, a skill to it. But some wanted more money and an easier way of getting it, so they began wrecking.’

‘Wrecking?’

‘Luring ships onto the rocks – to smash them to pieces – then helping yourself to whatever is washed ashore. And ignoring all the people who are dying – or killing them if they get in the way,’ said Henry.

Verity was stunned. It sounded horrific. ‘You think my father did that?’ she asked anxiously.

‘No, he’s too young, for a start. No, I just meant that Wellow tends to be divided between people who see the time of the Gentry as the town’s finest hour and those who consider it a pretty shameful episode.’

Verity stood there quietly. Henry realized he’d gone too far, as usual. ‘Would you like to come back for a cup of cocoa?’ he asked.

Verity paused for a second. Her mother would prefer it if she went straight home – straight home to sit quietly on her own in the front room and read.

‘It’s a bit of a squash, and quite noisy, but Mum’s a great cook,’ continued Henry anxiously, to fill the silence. ‘Or do you have to get back for your grandmother?’

That settled it.

Verity smiled. ‘Cocoa would be lovely.’

Verity followed Henry through the kitchen door as he took off his hat, ruffling his hair to get rid of the static. His mother was at the oven, her ample frame protected from the hazards of baking with a blue apron.

‘Hello, cherub.’ Mrs Twogood beamed in greeting, turning round to plant a kiss on his cheek.

‘Mu-um,’ Henry protested, wiping his cheek furiously for fear of telltale flour residue.

‘Brought a visitor, have you?’ she asked cheerfully.

Henry stared in reproof at his mother’s shameless pretence of not knowing who Verity was. ‘Mum, Verity; Verity, Mum,’ he muttered.

Mrs Twogood smiled warmly at Verity, then took both hands in hers. ‘Just as I thought, half frozen. A nice hot drink and some biscuits – that’s what you need.’

Verity smiled instinctively.

‘ ’S there any milk?’ asked Henry, inspecting the larder.

‘Some fresh from Aunty Jean,’ said Mrs Twogood as she put a kettle on to boil.

Verity leaned against the dresser. The pressure of her weight caused a small piece of paper that had been tucked away under a shelf to fall down onto the counter. She picked it up. Pinned to it was a sprig of dried rosemary, and written on it a peculiar verse:

‘Protect us, oh lords, from the Mistress of the Storm,’
she read aloud. ‘
She who roams this land and would take what is not hers
. How unusual,’ she said. ‘What is it?’

Henry looked at it in shock. ‘It’s a Gentry blessing,’ he said, taking it from her to examine. ‘For gullible idiots. Don’t know what it’s doing here.’

Mrs Twogood moved briskly over to snatch the blessing from her son’s hand.

‘For nitwits … and my mum,’ said Henry, realizing who must be responsible for the hidden slip of paper. ‘Does Dad know that’s in the house?’

‘Can’t do any harm,’ said Mrs Twogood defensively, tucking it back into place.

‘Can’t do any good either,’ said Henry.

‘What’s a Gentry blessing?’ asked Verity, intrigued.

‘The Gentry spread rumours and stories to scare people
and keep them in their houses. They had a real gift for it. Made out they had supernatural powers; that they could control the weather, control the sea … protect people. That sort of thing.’

‘Really?’ asked Verity. Henry clearly didn’t approve, but she was charmed.

‘It was just a load of mumbo jumbo to control the credulous,’ he said dismissively.

‘The Mistress of the Storm?’ Verity ran a finger along the words of the blessing. Somehow the name rang a bell.

‘One of their most famous scare-tactics: she was supposedly a witch who protected the
Storm
. Now she’s more of a fairy tale.’

‘How exciting,’ said Verity, thrilled at the sound of it.

‘Complete rubbish,’ said Henry authoritatively.

‘So, were the Twogoods part of the Gentry?’

Henry nodded. ‘Until they got into murdering and stealing, yes.’

‘That’s enough now,’ interrupted Mrs Twogood, handing Henry a plate of biscuits. ‘Your dad’ll be back any minute.’

Henry grabbed a rectangular wooden box inlaid with different coloured squares from the kitchen table. ‘Do you play backgammon?’ he asked Verity.

Verity rolled the dice.

‘Another double,’ groaned Henry in disbelief. ‘Are you sure you don’t know how to cheat at throwing them?’

‘Beginner’s luck.’ Verity grinned, moving two more of her counters off the board.

‘You can have too much of that, you know,’ said Henry, trying – unsuccessfully – to get back into the game by landing on a point Verity hadn’t covered off.

‘Do you know where my grandfather is now?’ asked Verity, keen to get back to their former topic.

Henry shook his head. ‘No idea,’ he said, passing the dice to her. ‘I just know he left Wellow a long time ago.’

‘Did he go because of … because of the wrecking?’ Verity continued, a little anxiously.

Henry pulled a face. ‘I’m not sure. I know it was about the same time.’

‘Biscuits,’ exclaimed a disembodied head, peering round the door of the Twogoods’ sitting room. A second appeared just inches below it. Both displayed shocks of straw-coloured hair.

‘My brothers Percy and Will,’ explained Henry resignedly.

Percy – the eldest of the three – strode into the room and extended a hand towards Verity, while simultaneously snatching a biscuit from Henry’s plate. ‘Miss Gallant. Very pleased to make your acquaintance. You seem to have appalling taste in new friends but we shan’t hold that against you.’

Verity grinned in silent bemusement as Percy expertly fended off his outraged younger brother and proceeded to eat the stolen contraband.

‘How long’s your grandmother going to be staying?’ Henry asked, more to change the subject than anything else.

Verity felt her happiness deflate a little. ‘She hasn’t said.’ Just thinking about her elderly relative made her feel flat. ‘I don’t think she’s very keen on me.’ Saying it out loud made her feel even more unpopular than usual.

Henry gazed up as if pondering one of life’s great mysteries. ‘Sometimes people take a sudden and inexplicable dislike to me,’ he said. ‘Which baffles me – because I’m fantastic.’

His two brothers hooted with derision.

‘Fantastically annoying, don’t you mean?’ said Percy, pummelling Henry to the floor in response.

‘I wouldn’t worry about it too much,’ said Will. ‘Lots of old people have peculiar views on all sorts of things. Hoarding buttons, going to the shops in your slippers …’

Verity smiled at him, appreciating the sentiment. She leaned against the sagging sofa with the threadbare arms. It didn’t match the other chairs in the room, but she didn’t notice. She didn’t take in the brass fire ornaments, which had been polished so many times they’d lost a significant amount of detail, nor the wool rug that had come off worse in a tussle with some moths. All she could see was that it was happy and it was noisy. Would her own home be more like this once the baby arrived?

‘Perhaps Mother will have a boy …’ she wondered out loud.

‘Is she expecting?’ asked Percy.

Verity nodded.

‘Better hope it’s not,’ he advised. ‘I can tell you firsthand that there are few things more irritating in life than a younger brother.’

Will noticed the backgammon board. ‘You’ve missed a trick with those spare counters over there.’

‘Verity doesn’t need any
more
help,’ yelped Henry indignantly. ‘She’s only been playing two minutes.’

‘Well, in no time she’ll be wiping the floor with you, won’t she?’ Will started to show Verity what he meant.

It was the end of the day at last. Verity’s mind was still churning with curiosity and excitement about the mysterious and inexplicable events of recent days. She was looking forward to losing herself in her new book. Safely tucked in bed, her wooden ball clasped in her hand, she turned to a section titled ‘Control and Punishment’:

Sitting with her knees up, the reading lamp casting out
a warm glow, Verity felt cocooned from the world. Funny how the sailing match tomorrow no longer seemed so daunting. She knew it was silly, but holding the ball seemed to make her feel better, as if it were lucky.

Downstairs, her mother opened the door of her husband’s study. By the time he’d returned home last night she’d been asleep. So – given their tacit agreement not to quarrel in front of the children – she’d had all day to rehearse this conversation.

‘Your stepmother has taken Verity’s room,’ she began briskly.

Mr Gallant was sitting facing away from his desk, looking out of the window. He didn’t reply.

Not unused to this state of affairs, Mrs Gallant continued with her speech, gazing with irritation at the cluttered shelves that were so difficult for Sophia, the maid, to clean. ‘I really do think, Tom, that if you are going to invite guests to the house, the least you could do is warn me of it. And possibly make sure you are here to welcome them too,’ she added with more sarcasm than was usual.

Still her husband said nothing. Mrs Gallant huffed with frustration. This was intolerable. ‘Are you just going to sit there and say nothing?’ she asked crossly.

He remained silent. Mrs Gallant drew herself up to her full height. ‘Fine,’ she said coldly, closing the study door with an abrupt bang.

*   *   *

On the other side of Wellow, Villainous Usage opened the front door of the fisherman’s cottage that he and Mother shared, letting in a fierce gust of cold in the process. His stoaty face scrunched up as he squinted into the gloom of the front room.

‘Muvver,’ he bellowed (quite unnecessarily given that the entire property consisted of two downstairs rooms and two up).

She was in the kitchen, treating the range to a monologue. ‘Who’s he to talk to me like that?’ she demanded, surveying it with ill-concealed contempt.

Villainous stood at the doorway and extracted the carcass of a rabbit from inside his coat. ‘Gutted it just now, I did,’ he explained with enthusiasm. ‘Fair stank.’

‘Who’s he to deny me my family’s trade?’ she continued, grabbing the proffered gift without a word of thanks. ‘If the
Storm
isn’t here to do business, then what’s her purpose?’

Villainous stared anxiously and said nothing. No words sufficed when Mother got like this.

‘Well, there’s more ’n one way to skin a rabbit,’ she snarled, holding up the bloody specimen in illustration of her point. ‘The
Lady Georgia
heads this way in November, packed with gold, and I must have that cargo. If he won’t provide the service I need, I’ll go round him.’

Sunday morning dawned with a crisp, fresh autumn breeze. Verity needed to be at the sailing club for nine o’clock so she was already gathering together Mother’s suggested outfit, trying to ignore a quiet sense of misgiving.

She hadn’t packed any cotton trousers when evicted from her room, so she went upstairs to get some. Standing at the door, she breathed in the familiar scent for a second or two. A ray of late autumn sun shone through the window. A few motes of dust floated peacefully through the air. It was so calm up here, but already it looked completely different somehow.

Verity went over to the window. On the sill lay a pair of delicate gilt and enamel binoculars. Without thinking she picked them up and looked out across the rooftops. The binoculars were superbly crafted: they made everything seem so close. Verity felt like a bird swooping above the town and heading out over the sea. The
Storm
came into her line of sight, still anchored in the bay.